


The Journal of Caleb Rabattem

by Morteamore



Category: The Secret World
Genre: Al-Merayah, Blue mountains, Gen, Horror, Spoilers, The Secret World - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:34:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26006542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morteamore/pseuds/Morteamore
Summary: Caleb 'Dedbeat' Rabattem chronicles his experiences as one of Gaia's Chosen
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Caleb Rabattem’s journal  
March 3rd, 2013  
Blue Mountain Region, New England  
Time: 9:35am**

I’ve finally escaped from the Innsmouth archives. Freddy Beaumont, you’ve just been selected to be on the receiving end of a rifle barrel, come on down! I may have sat there for days trying to claw my way out, getting torn apart over and over again by the malformed animated flesh (ew) that protects the archives with grrr and arrrg’ing, if the way out hadn’t been revealed to me by projectiling one of those bastards through the stacks. Stupid hidden passageways. Stupid Douchemont. 

I’m writing about all of this cos it’s turning point time. I thought I’d start keeping a journal again. I did almost ten years ago, when I lived back home. Cataloged all my baby steps until it was time to buzz off. My family has that journal now. They probably think I’m certifiable.Just like they thought grams was. But that old girl knew what she was talking about. It don’t matter no more. The next time I’ll probably see them is when they’re dead in the ground. And I still won’t have aged a day. There’s that old saying right there—you can never go home again.

Anyway, Freddy Douchemont…LMAO. Man oh man, who does this wanker think he is? That’s rhetorical. I got _that_ puzzle figured out quick enough. The Blah blah blah, revenge on some peeps of mythical might, dead gods, big plans, gonna get my fifteen minutes of demi-god fame—now who hasn’t heard this all before? Raise your hands for the passé. 

Gods and hammers, though—that makes me raise an eyebrow or two. Cos mi dio, su dio. It ain’t like I ever forgot _my_ god (he’s got that whole thunder and lightning thing going on, too), I just don’t lead people in worship anymore. That’s time-wasting bullshit. Gods do what gods want to do, and I conclude that the only wars they care about are those against each other. 

Maybe I just got a grudge with my main bro in arms, Shango. Even though, in all his crash, boom, theatrical glory, he might’ve hand-picked me to represent his little drones in the Bee hive. Wave sayonora to your mortality, Caleb, cos oooo, I’m a god and the shit’s going to get real if nobody believes I’m a big, strong motherfucker sending in troops like Damballah, and Ochosi, and capital G or G-d, and Krishna, and…you get the point. All them gods are rolling the dice and throwing the cards down, conspiring to slit each other’s throats.

Nah, truthfully, I ain’t all sure any god decided to point their mighty finger at me, and say, hey, man, he’s going to be ‘the one.’ Like in that Jet Li film.  
But it doesn’t matter if it were random cosmic forces or gambling gods. We’re The Chosen, baby. We wave our hands and boom, you go bye bye. We take warm baths in fire that doesn’t turn us burnt and crispy. We wield the powers of the gods, but, ha, that’s the least of the arsenal we have at our disposal. Strike us down till ya heart pops a valve with content, but we spring right back up.

Nothing in all the planes of existence can stop us.

If you knew how sweet that is—well, you’ll never know, because you can’t know, hmm?

Hello, my name is Dedbeat, and I’m an anima junkie.

XXX

**The Journal of Caleb Rabattem  
March 3rd, 2013  
Solomon Islands  
Blue Mountain Region, Maine.  
Time: maybe four hours later**

What do you know, maybe Freddy Beaumont wasn’t bluffing about being a bad ass. Though he was more a pain in _my_ ass in retrospect. That man is pushing all my hard-to-push wrong buttons. Or was. I’m almost certain I snuffed him out (I hope. Damn hippy). 

I thought I’d write some more, because I’m still lying outside the mine recovering, and it’s really boring. Not because there’s nothing to do or reflect or catch up on. But because I crushed my Ipod in that battle against Freddy Douchemont. I need my music to do anything productive, man. 

I keep thinking of Seriah without the distraction. I’m spilling blood wanton style for my twin sister. First in Port-of-Spain, now in the middle of Filth-infested northeast America. I screwed up once and it’s not going to happen again. I don’t know where her soul has gone, but the deeper I go down the rabbit hole, the more I hold out hope that I could see her again. 

Maybe not a good idea. I’ve encountered so many spectral things now that I respect hauntings as part of my daily routine. But every single one of them is…twisted. I’m talking deformed and downright mean. I’ve died a few times in their phantasmagorical, slimy, ecto tendrils. Only the violent or unjust deaths come back. I think? Seriah was both. I think it’d be too much, seeing her in that state. 

I want another chance to see her, I don’t want to see her at all. Caleb, my man, you are thoroughly mind-fucked. 

Ami and Kyra Dexter showed up with supplies a few minutes ago. Beef jerky that tastes like dust. I’m too hungry and it does its job. I’m sure we’ll be setting sail to more darkness battling sometime soon. Hooray, yippee, shoot me in the head and plug up the anima wells so my corpse doesn’t come shambling back to life with a shit eating grin.  
No, I feel for the broken Wabanaki tribe, I really do. Their culture is dying, their grip slipping on their ability to ward off the darkness, they’re relying more on people like me. The brand new…brand of heroes. It must be a shitty thing knowing your gig is up, that you’re washed up; that your gods knocked on your door and sent this man or woman or inbetween to replace you. But I don’t care about their individual fates. I can’t fix their goddam laundry list of problems. My own trumps theirs. I’m selfish that way. 

Well, maybe not Kyra’s. That poor kid is stuck in the middle of this shit way too young. But I think I’m just fond of her obnoxious ass because she reminds me of my sister.  
Maybe that utter egotism is why the Lumies had such a hard-on for me. That, and Dedbeat was playing at underground connections like a hooker plays a John. The Dedbeat, the man with fire in his eyes that you pumped full of .357 and mysteriously showed up right back in your face a few days later dressed for Halloween. You should just give him the 10k you owe him already, man.

That’s just my wet dream. Dedbeat plays the evil part, but evil he is not. He’s a mortal man, a good recruiter of warm, human bodies who can wheel and deal the info.  
Tell me I didn’t just refer to my ‘supe alter ego as a separate person. Pausing to think about it, it _does_ make sense. Every day, it makes more and more sense.  
But then doesn’t that make _Caleb_ the mortal man and Dedbeat the _alt_ universe? 

After all, Ded loves his flair. And this world of Gaia engines and myths-come-true is nothing but flashy, bangy flair.

XXX

**March  
The Dreaming  
Time and date unknown**

What…just happened? There had been a voice in my head, man. Ami & Kyra did their good deed, or was it my good deeds or just Kyra’s whining, and the tribe was hugging and laughing again. The laughing might be stretching it. I drank their Kool-Aid and suddenly I’m all rising up in this failed-expedition-to Shamballah-whammy ice cavern. Where the hell did those Wabanaki even send me? 

I tried not to think about whom that voice belonged to. It wasn’t The Eye or whatever that emotionless, meme-spewing debriefer agent is called. I don’t pay attention to these things. They’re all means to an end. 

But I thought anyway, and god (unintentional pun there), what were they telling me? That history was an accidental design of the quests for godhood? That…gods are mortal men who become The Chosen? That The Chosen become gods? 

That sounds incredibly stupid. And, come on, I’m not naïve. It can’t be that easy.

I liked the sound of it, though. Godhood, mmm mmm good. If absolute power corrupts, then, oh yeah, corrupt me. 

So I drank some more Kool-Aid. This one was even wrapped up in a box with a little pink bow. Happy birthday to me.

You and I might someday be on equal ground, Shango. Then we’ll dance on that broken moonlit plane. 

Wouldn’t you know it, though. The Kool-Aid was of the cosmic death cult variety that time.

XXX

**March 4th  
8:45am  
The Labyrinth  
New York City**

Kristen Greary—KG to us blood hounds—is smoking hot. She’s also the big cheese around these parts, and the biggest bitch I’ve ever known. I bet she knows I want to put the moves on her. She might even want to put them back. Those heels would probably hurt with extra sauce on the side if she crushed me with them. Her word’s declared me one of the few _really_ good dogs, though, worthy of the leash. Oh, I’ll roll over for you, baby, if you give me a bone. 

Since when are you a randy goat, Caleb? That sworn celibacy starting to crack and yolk all over you? Gross. 

I’m writing to myself again. I seem to talk to Cal the most. I never write to Ded. Cal was also never a flowery, sarcastic dick. I’m starting to wonder if The Ded man’s more the voice of reason than Caleb. Dedbeat, you are my sunshine. 

Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold it. Keep your head, Rabattem. You go crazy, and these people might just find a way to put your rabid ass down permanently.  
Let’s just move on here. 

I’m so good at my job that KG patted me on the head and rewarded me with a trip to The Room. The Room…which I had no idea about. Never seen that place before. Bet there’s a lot of rooms in the Labyrinth I haven’t seen before. 

They told me to sit, and this dog sat. They gave me the file, and…I shouldn’t be writing about this top secret stuff. The All Seeing Eye really _is_ all seeing. He knows I use children’s toothpaste. He knows I don’t like cats, even when they’re fluffy kittens. He even knows I go commando— _you_ try wearing underwear with tight, leather combat pants.

So I’ll zip up about our freak sysadmin, speak softly about a certain rogue, and end here—I’m to hop on to the Cairo express. There’s trouble going down in pyramid town.  
Guess this dog’s on the hunt again. Open the window plane so I can hang my head out the Agartha portal.  
Lame. 

Maybe I’ll even get myself a spiked collar.

XXX

**April 17th, 2013  
Al-Merayah, Egypt  
10:22pm**

Here’s my theory for all you people not reading: All The Chosen are broken somehow.

War veterans, junkies, victims of natural disaster, gangsters, the alienated, coma patients. 

It’s prep school. Before anyone hears The Buzzing, before The Bees appear to choose the few good (wo)men to battle the spreading darkness, they have to face the darkest parts of being human first. It makes absolute rational sense. Not that my life’s been rational for the last few years. Absurd brought the chips’n’dip to this surreal party.  
It’s not just battle as in traditional fisticuffs. To be consumed by The Filth, have it flow through the bloodstream and filtered out of the universe—we are the only ones who can perform _that_ trick. And because of that, we must be the calm in the eye of the storm (I’m starting to sound like one of those chaos loving Dragon loonies. Sometimes I think the wrong faction came knocking on my door). We cannot flinch. 

I don’t flinch. 

Of course I don’t. Which is why your’s truly got the promotion he was all but cutting throats for. See what happens when you’re ruthless and don’t give in to playing nice, Caleb? The Big Guys start taking notice of you. _Kristen Geary_ starts taking notice of you. You aren’t no rookie hound anymore, no, man. It’s not quite a private office with a gold name plate, but it’s a work in progress.

Which means I’m still out among all the others trying to fetch first.

I’ve been in Egypt for over two weeks, and it hasn’t been all tea and cakes. Though the woman selling the tea and cakes in the city of al-Merayah, Zhara, is pleasant enough. I’ve been renting a room above her place, Café Giza, on the ‘lumies’ dime, but dipping in to my own pocket to give the girl a little extra on the side. Poor thing. My heart goes out to her, separated from her sister, hiding from the demons and cultists slithering on top of the darkness already embedded in the desert (and not all the corruption is wafting off the demonic camel dung), never knowing when the frayed safety net is finally going to break. I know how _that_ can be. On both accounts. 

So Most every time I come back to my room, I make sure to sit down with Zhara and chat about comfortably mundane things over coffee and a smoke. Traditional style, from a hookah. She thinks of us Chosen as angels, here to drive the darkness from whence it came. Mystical. I inwardly cringe at her naivety. Some Chosen are angels of darkness. Myself, sure, I’ll help without a second thought. But I’m not doing it all out of altruism. I have my thumb in that pie just as much, and sometimes I’m better at bringing that darkness to you. 

Zhara’s quite the seamstress. She gifted me with linen robes so that I’d blend in better. And because she found my leather ensemble impractical and absurd. Yeah, sure, it _was_ impractical and absurd, but linen robes? What am I, Jesus Christ? (Might as well be in some of these peoples’ eyes). She was just trying to repay me for my good work, though, and it was impolite to be ungrateful. Luckily for me after wearing them a few days while trekking across the desert to find a man Zhara mentioned had left behind an expensive hat and even more expensive sunglasses at the café, I had been ensnared by several battles with vicious Atenist cultists, and exactly one with a scorpion the size of a small elephant (this is bat country, as Johnny Depp’s character said in the indy hit, Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas. I forget who he played). The robes became stained and ragged. After finding my man and getting yet another request for my services, I came upon an outfit far more suited to my svelte and athletic form, buried and forgotten at the bottom of a dusty tomb dedicated to, of all the stupidest things, a minor locust deity. 

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The guy who owned the designer shades? Turned out to be ancient. Literally ancient. As in a goddam mummy as old as Moses in every sense of the saying. LMAO. He was more surprised that I was real then I was he was. Took a few photos of me to put up on Instagram, as if I was something rare and exotic. He is right though. Of course I am. His name was Said, and this boy was way too fancy and articulate for someone held together by dust and…shriveled—nevermind, he just looked real nasty. And possibly stuck in a decade that happened almost 100 years ago. Said’ll probably still be around when I’m able to get stuck in a time that happened a century ago. Maybe we can be best buddies. 

I risked slowing down the legwork I was doing by hopping the Agartha rail (tree?) line to NYC. Agartha travel is like being born all over again, having your soul squeezed from your body and shoved out through the channels between Earth and the otherside. I’m grossed out that I wrote that. I don’t know what the otherside is, either. I’m not an expert, I just work here. Nobody tells me anything I understand. It still freaks me now and again to be spit out in another continent entirely intact. Beam up, o might deity or whatever fucking force you might be! Beaming up and using the force—my god, Jim, a travesty of parallels. When I get back home for a little while, I’m queuing up The Wrath of Kahn & then having a Star Wars marathon.

Yeah, so, back to the bees—that’s a slap of reality, having the constant epiphany that you are no longer part of the normal human flock, and never will be again. 

I don’t miss my humanity. I’ve been better off without it.


	2. Chapter 2

**June, 2013  
Hart Security LLC Field Research  
Assessment of Situations in Transylvania by Executive Dedbeat, C.R.**

Note to self:

Agartha (The Chosen of Gaia’s very own personal trans-dimensional highway) and pizza are not the best of bedfellows. Me and Mischa—an agent under the training of Section B supervisor, Ravenstorm—may have been stuffing our faces with greasy, cheesy goodness, but upon being spit out of an anima well (or we could just call it the magical life force well that brings you so magically back to life), it quickly became an amorphous greasy glob of tastes-like-machine-oil-and-yucky-jujubees un-goodness. Gaia’s Chosen needs an oil check, stat.

New file: any food passing through Agartha shall take on the properties of…the hell do I know? Anima bee shit, whatever. Having It Your Way, this ain’t.  
There’s also a choking hazard. You might die. Choking hurts. So it will hurt. Even if you can’t really die. 

Stepping into the chill of the farming village (hate, hate the cold, but at least it wasn’t damp and musty like someone’s gram’s house. Goddam Solomon Islands), we talked to this brooding, bad ass chick, Missus Preda. She tried to spook us with her _oooo, I lost an eye fighting the darkness._ Golf clap. Her horse was so seriously dumb. It stood there all wall-eyed. I was gonna poke it to see if it was catatonic or maybe just possessed, but Mischa told me to move my ass. This is ghoul country!

Ah, ghouls are old hat. Nothing to them. They try to beat you with road signs when you’re going in guns akimbo cos they’re dumb. But as Mischa ran ahead chasing some stupid bird like a rabid lunatic, I decided to stop at the village tavern for a drink on her suggestion that I should, OMG, go see the talking deer! Man, oh, man, totally not what I was expecting. I had to hit the pause button. Who else was I sharing a drink with then the great entity of my childhood, the hooved god of gran mama’s tales, Papa Bois. Sure, they called him Cern, but what’s in a name? Humbled and awed, I dropped my gaze and bowed my head to the Father of the Wood.

But Papa Bois was like, the hell you doing? My boy Bois was all hitting on a human chick. So trippy, goddam.

After getting all buddy buddy with Bois, and telling him I was his number one fan and would be back with an army to lead in his defense, I met back up with Mischa and almost literally ran into our buddy Vermello. Anima hoodoo: forever freaky 

There was a lot of running around until we met this Cucu bird woman, who wanted us to have tea, cakes, and kickstart her Commondoor—those computers that were around, like, 3 decades ago and you had to type all these commands in and be a damn nerd. Hot and sweaty from being holed up in a tree, and from way too much exertion for my smooth and sinewy body, I decided to join my two lady pals’ strategy and strip down to my skivvies (Don’t worry, I kept my gas mask on!).

That’s when the idea came to me. My next big DJ show would be a wet t-shirt and underwear exhibition. Turn on the sprinkler system, cos yer gonna get hot!   
Fortunately for the village residents and allied fauna, I got cold enough quickly and ran back whimpering to my clothes. 

I. Hate. The. Cold.

Mowing down vampires and werewolves with Van Helsing style works up an appetite, and bee-machine-hive-honey-slimed pizza wasn’t satisfying. Shoulda brought a Snickers bar. Our monster pals had kindly skewered and spit roasted the local farm animals, and spotting a cow already carved and ready for the serving, I couldn’t resist a helping, or a heaped one. All beef patties! I hadn’t had a burger since, like, the day before. Vermello watched as I munched my snack, not knowing I was about to meet a grotesque beyond measure doom.

Running to catch up with our honorary scout Mischa, well, that’s when it got all wrong. It became a bad PSA, folks. I wobbled and clambered like I was slipping in the Blood on the Dance Floor. There we were standing on the grassy knoll of blood ritual disruption, my two girls with their assassination machines, locked, cocked, and loaded (interpret as you will) to face down Tugomir cel Mare. When suddenly I doubled over, declaring that I was about to paint this death party in— 

Ew. Oh, gods, jesus, fuck, great Yoruba spirits of the most awful of fates. I can’t even think about it. Why am I typing this? Pushing laptop aside. 

Deep breaths, Cal, deep breaths. There’ve been worse traumas. There have been babies of projectiling talents. Just imagine if you had hoards and hoards of babies. Sorry bout the clothes though, son. Maybe you shouldn’t be playing your jobs against each other. Serves you goddam right, you double-teamer.

I wrench my gas mask off, scramble out of my shirt, use it as a towel, and roll around in the grass and dirt. I almost cried. There were almost tears. Thankfully I always carry an arsenal of hygienic products in my combat pants. What, you think those pockets are for practical purposes? Tch.

After much mourning of clothing and swigs of whiskey to get that real icky taste out of my mouth, I was well enough to get my shit together and boom, pow, blam. Mare was down and out without further incident, thanks to our competent team. Or fairly competent.

I think I turned into a ghost then. Not, like, my anima got all exhumed the fuck out of me and now I gotta find some magic portal of re-animation ghost. With all the whiskey, our grand adventures in Vamp Country all started to blur together. I think me, Mischa, and Vermello had to deck ourselves out in these awful outfits stitched from the bedsheets of paupers. Farmers have no fashion sense whatsoever. They were all ripped and smelled of wet werewolf. WTF, was it Halloween?

The last of what I can coherently recall is a church, in which I stumbled up to the decrepit alter and started bible humping. Er, thumping. The Ded has risen, come to save your souls. To the Ded god we worship, as we kneel with aw at the wrath of his mighty thunder…and laser beams. Laser beams would be so cool at that wet tee/underwear show. Writing that down ASAP.

Sing it out, my sweet Ded Beaties: The only one who could ever please me, was the son of a PREACHER, MAAAAAAAN!’

Alright, I’m out.


End file.
